Chapter 6
The castle does not mourn.
It endures.
That is Callum Fraser’s first thought when gray morning light seeps through the narrow windows and spills across stone floors that have known centuries of footsteps.
He has been awake for hours, pacing corridors that still feel like Keir might step out of any doorway and tell him to stop wearing a path in the rugs.
The house is too quiet.
Not empty, never empty, but hollowed, like a chest after something vital has been cut out. Keir’s absence is everywhere. In the silence where music should be. In the cold hearth. In the way the walls seem to be watching him, waiting to see what he’ll do next.
Callum stands in the library with a mug of coffee gone untouched in his hand, staring out at the beauty of the land. Fog clings to the land, lifting slowly, revealing fields dark with damp and stubborn with life. This place has survived wars, betrayals, and entire bloodlines rising and falling.
It should survive this.
But survival isn’t the same as belonging.
Keir had taken him in when no one else wanted him. Had pulled him out of a school that smelled like bleach and quiet cruelty, signed papers without hesitation, and driven him here without asking whether Callum deserved it or even wanted to live here.
You stay, you follow my rules. You don’t want to obey; you can leave.
Callum had stayed.
He had learned structure. Discipline. Responsibility. He had learned how to stand still when anger threatened to consume him. How to build something instead of burn it down.
And Keir, brilliant, selfish, impossible Keir, had promised him this place.
Not in a will. Not in ink.
But in late-night conversations. In shared silences. In the way Keir spoke about the castle like a living thing they were both responsible for.
This place is yours someday, boy. Don’t let it rot.
Callum had believed him.
The library door opens.
Belief becomes fragile.
Andrew Bell enters first, carrying a thick leather folder that looks far too heavy for the damage it contains. His expression is composed, professional, almost kind, the face of a man who knows this will hurt and intends to deliver the pain efficiently.
Behind him comes Isla MacLaren and her mother.
Callum turns.
Isla looks different in daylight. Less volatile than she did at the funeral, but sharper for it. She wears dark trousers and a fitted jacket, her auburn hair pulled back tight, her face closed off like a door with the lock thrown. She looks like someone who has already decided not to stay.
Her mother, Alisa, is another thing entirely.
Alisa MacLaren’s gaze sweeps the room with practiced appraisal, the shelves of rare books, the antique desk, the carved fireplace. She is not looking at memories. She is looking at assets.
Callum recognizes fear when he sees it.
Not grief.
Fear.
Fear of losing the monthly checks that have cushioned her life for decades. Fear of watching the last tie to Keir’s money snap and leave her exposed.
They take their seats at the long table.
Callum sits opposite Isla, tension coiling low and tight in his chest. He hasn’t spoken to her since the night of the funeral reception. He hasn’t stopped thinking about her, either, which irritates him more than anything else.
All that auburn hair, that stubborn tilt of her chin, and those full lips that are inviting. What would she taste like?
Bell clears his throat.
“Thank you for meeting this morning,” he says. “I’ll proceed.”
Proceed, Callum thinks. Get it over.
Like this is orderly. Like this isn’t a reckoning.
“This is the last will and testament of Keir MacLaren,” Bell begins, opening the folder. “Executed on March twelfth—”
Callum stops listening to the date.
Dates don’t matter.
Promises do.
“The estate includes multiple properties, intellectual rights, publishing income, performance royalties, and liquid investments—”
Alisa leans forward slightly, fingers tightening together.
Callum keeps his eyes on Bell.
“And,” Bell continues, “the primary residence known as MacLaren Castle.”
Here it comes.
Callum’s pulse spikes.
Bell reads carefully, as if gentleness might blunt the blow.
I leave a quarter of my financial assets to Alisa MacLaren and the rest to my daughter, Isla MacLaren. I leave my primary residence, including all attached lands, fixtures, and contents, to my daughter, Isla MacLaren, to do with as she sees fit.
The words land like a physical strike.
Callum doesn’t breathe.
This includes the right to retain, occupy, lease, or sell said property at her sole discretion.
Sell.
The word detonates.
“That’s wrong,” Callum says flatly.
Bell looks up. “I’m afraid it isn’t.”
“He told me this place would be mine,” Callum snaps. “He promised—”
“Verbal assurances,” Bell interrupts gently, “do not supersede a valid will.”
Callum grips the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
Across from him, Isla says nothing.
That silence feels deliberate. Strategic.
“So that’s it?” Callum demands, turning to her. “You’ve been here two days, and you’re going to sell the only home I’ve ever known?”
“Yes,” Isla says.
One word.
Clean. Cold. Final.
Alisa exhales, relief slipping through before she can hide it. “We’ll need to discuss valuation and timeline, of course.”
Callum’s vision narrows.
“You’ve never been here,” he says to Isla, voice rough. “You don’t know this place. You don’t know what it means.”
“And I don’t want to,” Isla replies. “It isn’t mine.”
“It kept me alive,” Callum says. “It gave me structure. A future.”
“That doesn’t make it yours,” she counters.
“It makes it earned,” he snaps.
Alisa scoffs. “Keir made his intentions clear.”
“No,” Callum says, turning on her. “He didn’t. He never changed the will.”
Bell nods. “That is correct.”
Callum whips back. “Why?”
Bell hesitates, then sighs. “Keir was… conflicted.”
Conflicted.
The word feels like betrayal.
Keir had years. Decades. He had time to fix this, and he didn’t.
“Am I mentioned?” Callum asks, already bracing himself.
Bell flips a page.
I leave Callum Fraser a lifetime right of residence within the castle, subject to legal review, along with a trust sufficient for his maintenance.
A leash.
Permission to stay, not ownership.
Alisa’s mouth tightens. “That complicates matters.”
“It ensures Mr. Fraser isn’t displaced,” Bell replies.
Isla’s eyes flicker, surprise, irritation, something else she quickly smothers. “So I can’t sell.”
“Not immediately,” Bell says. “The will mandates a review period.”
“How long?” Isla demands.
“Ninety days minimum.”
The silence that follows is heavy and electric.
Callum feels something cold settle into his bones.
They’re trapped.
Together.
“That’s unacceptable,” Isla snaps.
“It’s binding,” Bell replies calmly.
Alisa stiffens. “We have obligations.”
“You’ll have to manage them,” Bell says. “Miss MacLaren must remain on the premises during the review. For ninety days, she cannot leave.”
Isla turns sharply toward Callum. “You planned this.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “You think I wanted this?”
“You’re benefiting.”
“No,” he says. “I’m surviving.”
Bell closes the folder. “I’ll return tomorrow with the next steps. I advise restraint.”
Restraint.
The solicitor leaves.
The door closes behind him with a sound that feels final.
Silence floods the room.
Isla pushes back her chair. “I’m selling this place the moment I legally can.”
Callum stands too. “Not without a fight.”
Her lips curve, sharp and defiant. “Good.”
The challenge hangs between them.
“You hate him,” Callum says suddenly.
Isla turns back. “I hate what he didn’t give me.”
“He saved my life,” Callum says, the words ripping out of him before he can stop them. “He pulled me out of hell. He was present. Patient. Protective.”
“And absent from mine,” Isla fires back. “Your version of him doesn’t erase that.”
“Your anger feels personal,” Callum admits. “Like you’re attacking the man who raised me.”
“That’s because he didn’t raise me,” Isla snaps. “And I’m done pretending that doesn’t matter.”
They stand there, grief and fury tangling, attraction simmering beneath it in a way neither of them wants.
Callum realizes, with bone-deep certainty, that this is no longer just about property.
It’s about loyalty.
Belonging.
Who gets to claim a man when he’s gone?
If Isla wants war, he will give it to her.
He will not lose the castle.
He will not lose Keir.
And he will not lose himself, even if despising Isla becomes the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Because all that auburn hair and those expressive emerald eyes are like a calling card, tempting him. Damn, he’d like to kiss her.